


The Monsters We Keep

by saltandlimes



Series: Whoever Fights Monsters [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Hux is Not Nice, Knifeplay, M/M, Mind Games, Power Imbalance, Tumblr Prompt, a tiny bit of blood that is almost not a big deal, ben solo is not nice, possibly slightly undertagged, strangely domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Solo is a Jedi knight, hero of the Resistance. He walks the line, keeps to the Light. </p><p>At least, anywhere but the little planet where he keeps the fallen General Hux hidden away. There, he writes the Dark across Hux's body, slides tendrils of it through Hux’s mind. It's supposed to help assuage the call. But maybe, maybe it just makes it stronger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monsters We Keep

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know how to play "The Fic I'll Never Write" on Tumblr, and thus give you another fic based on a prompt there. Thank you, anon.

The planet is forested, empty and wild. There's a single town, more properly a spaceport with a few cantinas, a refueling station. Some houses clustered around the permacrete landing zone. A few trails off to trapper's cabins, to hunting lodges. No cities, no authorities, save the guards at the cantina, who do little more than crack skulls if the fighting gets out of hand. 

It's perfect.

Ben sets his shuttle down in a corner of the landing zone, eases it between two cargo haulers that have seen better days. Far better days, and he's impressed that they even plan to get off this planet again. But they must, for no one stays here long, no one except those who man the spaceport, loners all, all with something they want to hide. 

No one but the person he's here to see. 

And in any case, he has something to hide as well.

Ben nods to the single guard at the end of the permacrete, hitches his belt a little, swaggers. The guard knows him at this point – over a year now that he's been coming here, slinking past with a grin and a joke, taking a drink sometimes at one of the three spots where a decent one can be had. 

They don't know who he is of course. Don't know that the backtalking smuggler with his quick trigger finger and naughty jokes is none other than Ben Solo himself, Jedi Knight, former apprentice to Luke Skywalker, hero of the Resistance. Whose mother leads the senate with an iron will, whose story is told in every planet of the newly reformed Republic. 

They don't recognize him from the holodramas, the books, the articles that the faxes blare across the galaxy. It's one of the many reasons this is perhaps Ben's favorite place. There are a few others as well, though. 

“Stopping in for a drink, Ben?” It's the guard, and Ben gives him a smirk. 

“Sorry, man. I'm in a bit of a rush. Haven't been home in a while.” And that's the other thing they know, or think they know, about him. They think, and Ben has done nothing to dissuade them, that Ben is one of the very few people who call this planet their permanent home. A base to smuggle from, a place to leave the only family they think Ben has. The guard gives him a nasty grin at that, licks his lips lasciviously. 

“Missing that pretty boy of yours?” And for a moment, rage races through Ben, pours about him like a flood. But he's good, so good at pushing it away, and he just gives a wink back, a quirk of his lips.

“You know I am. Seen him around lately?” And Ben knows, always knows where he is, but it's nice to hear confirmation, hear that he's been behaving as he ought. 

“Was in to town two days ago, I think. Just his usual run for supplies. You know, Ben,” and the guard leans closer, “you should take that boy with you some time. Shame to keep a thing like up cooped up here in the middle of the fucking shithole of the galaxy.” And this time Ben has to hold himself back, stop himself from reaching inside his tunic, from brushing fingers over the saber inside. He grits his teeth, takes a deep breath. It's always harder here, here at the tipping point. 

“Makes coming back to him even sweeter, you know what I mean?” Ben gives the guard as dirty a grin as Han ever taught him. “Gets really happy to see me come home, if you know what I'm saying.” The guard gives him a clap on the shoulder, reaching up a heavy hand to buffet Ben hard enough that he staggers. 

“Should be letting you get on, then. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting, would you?” And finally, finally Ben is off, walking fast down the center street of the spaceport, turning off down the dirt track that will bring him to the house that is his, that is the only place he can be himself in the galaxy. 

As he gets closer, he smells the woodsmoke.

The house doesn't have any heating beyond the great stove in the center, the fireplaces, the ducts that carry warm air throughout it. There's a holonet hookup, of course, and plumbing, but other than that, it's completely isolated, set off in a little clearing in the woods. And there's a carefully stacked pile of firewood outside the door, an axe in the chopping block. 

The garden is doing well, Ben is glad to see. He still remembers the time he'd come home, oh, maybe five months ago, and found the entire thing torn up. It had been a terrible disappointment. 

The door is closed when he gets to it, but it's not locked – there's no need for locks here, not this far from the spaceport. And so he pushes it open, takes a few steps inside on the swept wood floor. 

“Tarran? Tarran, where are you? I'm home!” He sings out, looks around the cozy room. There's a couch along one wall, the huge fireplace crouching against another. A low table, an armchair. There are few books scattered about – real paper things that Ben has brought back a few times, brought for Tarran to read, gifts of sorts. 

And then, oh, and then there's a creek from the floor behind him, the sound of light footsteps. Ben turns around, smile stretched tight across his mouth. And there he is. His very own pretty boy. Tarran's hair is glinting in the last sunlight slanting through the windows, bright and just a little too short for how Ben likes it. And he's gotten a sunburn again, fair skin red across the bridge of his nose, narrow shoulders freckled where they peak out from the sloppy neckline of his shirt. Ben feels his breath speed up, feels sensation come crashing into him as it always does when he sees Tarran. 

“Solo.” And Tarran's voice is clipped, the “r”s a clear mark of his birth on Arkanis. And it's sweet, the annoyance that Ben can let rush through him at that greeting, that he wouldn't be able to show anywhere else. 

“Ben. It's Ben, Tarran. I might as well start calling you Hux otherwise, and we both know where that would lead. I don't think those guards down at the spaceport would be so friendly if they knew who you really are.” Ben takes a few steps closer, lets himself loom over Tarran like he never does over anyone else. “I'll let it go, this time. I did just get back, after all.”

He slides a single finger under Tarran's chin, tips it upward. And then he's bending down, sinking his teeth into those pretty pink lips. Tarran squirms a little, but he doesn't jerk away, lets Ben bite and suck as hard as he wants, and that's an improvement. When Ben pulls away, he smiles. Tarran is finally learning. 

“Have you started dinner?” He has to wait for a moment for Tarran to answer, has to wait for the man to lick blood off of that soft mouth. And he smiles at the grimace Tarran makes when he finally starts to speak. 

“I... Ben, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were coming. I can.. start something right now if you like!” The end of it comes out in a rush, and Tarran Hux looks frightened, if a man like that can truly be afraid. Ben strokes his face. 

“We'll do it together, ok? I know I'm back early. But I just couldn't stay away from you,” and he smiles, wide and inviting. As Tarran turns away, walks toward the wide kitchen at the back of the house, his shirt slips a little. And Ben catches sight of the long scars across his shoulder, the bruise that has yet to fade all the way, faint greens and yellows still decorating Tarran's skin. 

He almost never comes back before the bruises fade. 

He needs to do it more often.

Because he can feel himself uncurling at the sight, relaxing into who he should be, is meant to be, is. And he's hurrying after Tarran, raking sharp nails against the back of his neck as he heads to the conservator. 

There's a stash of ale inside, patiently waiting for him, some vegetables from the garden, meat Tarran must have picked up at the spaceport. A jug of blue milk, a crock of butter. And he pulls out a bottle of ale, looks over to where Tarran is rushing to bang pans down onto the stove. He's jerky, moving just a little too quick, and Ben moves closer, watches as Tarran's hands tremble on the handle of a heavy pan. 

“Excited to see me, are you, love?” There's a tiny shake of Tarran's head, so quick that someone else might have missed it. But Ben sees, Ben always sees. And the anger rises again, so easy in this place. He has brought money, company for Tarran. The least the man could do is seem grateful. 

“Surprised.” And Ben's anger subsides a little. It's an honest answer, if not the whole truth. And he really has no interest in playing before dinner, wants to make it through at least that much of the day. So he stores the annoyance away, lets it curl in his stomach, resting there like a small slippery thing. And instead he takes a long drag from the bottle. 

He doesn't drink.

Or at least not around Leia Organa – his mother, though he rarely calls her that in the depths of his mind – or Luke, or anyone else for that matter. He's a Jedi, and Jedi must be beyond reproach. But here, here in this house that is his home, he can do anything. Drink himself into a stupor and wait for Tarran to wake him in the morning. Scream so loud that Tarran covers his ears in shock. Throw things across the room, punch the wall until his knuckles are bloody, knife a man in the spaceport for stealing his purse. He can do it all. 

Tarran glances sideways at him, eyes narrowed, careful. Ben smiles at him, the smile that is all Tarran's, that he first felt sliding across his face all those months ago. 

It had been a stroke of luck, really. He'd been out on a patrol alone, just something routine, a vain attempt to catch the few members of First Order high command who had slipped out of the Resistance's fingers when they had finally taken Rakata Prime, taken the First Order's homeworld. And he'd been as surprised as the former General when they'd literally bumped into one another. Hux had been drunk – a poor choice for a man in his position, but Ben didn't mentioned it until later – and it had been less than a challenge to wrestle him onto the waiting shuttle. 

And while he'd waited for Tarran Hux, former First Order General, the Starkiller, the most feared man in the galaxy, to sleep off a blind drunk in the back of his shuttle, Ben had _the idea_. It had been getting harder, so much harder, to keep control of things.

When the war was actually raging, he had a little leeway. No one noticed if Ben Solo was less than careful about his emotions in the midst of a battle. No one noticed if he held a chokehold a little too long, threw a stormtrooper away from him with too much anger in his eyes. No, that was just part of war, part of the whirl of destruction that was Ben Solo and his violet saber. 

But after the fighting had stopped, after all Ben had to do was wander the galaxy, mopping up the remaining members of the First Order, it had become harder to hide. Harder to show the world the face of a perfect Jedi, walk the line, feel the Light, when all he wanted was the Dark coursing through his veins. When all he wanted was to be rid of this terrible obligation, to rend and tear and break his way through the galaxy. 

And in that shuttle, staring down at a man who was marked for death, he had found the perfect solution. And when Hux had woken up, Ben had given him a choice. Return to the New Republic, face a trial and certain execution. Or go with Ben. Go where no one would ever find him, where he would be safe, would live. The only thing Ben asked was to get whatever he wanted from Hux, short of Hux's life. 

It was shocking how fast Hux agreed. 

Or perhaps not shocking. He believed the lie Ben told the galaxy just as much as Leia or Luke. 

He knows better now. 

And so when Ben smiles at him, he curls in on himself a little, strange in a man whose eyes are chips of ice much of the time. 

And when Ben gestures, he shrinks away, as though he thinks the gesture will turn to a slap, a punch. 

It might. 

But Ben doesn't really want to play that game tonight. No, he'd rather have fun a different way, play with Tarran a different way. 

Because sometimes, just sometimes, he decides to push just hard enough, but not too hard. He lets himself feel lust, anger, possession, greed, but also care, desire, want. And this is one of those nights. 

“What can I do to help?” He asks, and Tarran starts, shakes his head. 

“Nothing, just tell me what you want to eat. I was planning on making one of those steaks in there, some roasted vegetables from the garden. But I can do something else if you like.” It's so remarkably civil, so _normal_ that Ben wants to laugh. So much like they really are some nutty couple in the middle of no where, a smuggler and a stay-at-home gardener, living their life at the shithole end of the universe. 

“That sounds fine, Tarran.” And he watches as Tarran pulls out the steaks, feeds the stove up high enough for the meat to sear on it. And then Tarran is pulling down a gleaming knife, chopping the root vegetables into thin slices. 

The first time Tarran made them both dinner, he tried to throw the knife at Ben. 

That knife isn't in the kitchen anymore.

No, it's in their bedroom.

***

Dinner is good, much better than those first few attempts were, right after they'd put the house to rights, after Ben had “acquired” it from a local trapper. Now there are no burnt vegetables, no steak bleeding across the plates.

Ben savors every bite, licks his fork clean while staring at Tarran. The man is beautiful, perhaps more beautiful now that his deathly pale skin has tanned just the slightest bit, now that his hair frames his face, soft and loose. And he's Ben's, forever Ben's. 

It's exhilarating beyond imagining. 

Ben feels his stomach twist as he watches Tarran clear their places. They've chatted over dinner about what Tarran has been up to – the garden is doing well, the spaceport is thriving, he went and had a drink with one of the cantina owners the other night. 

“Don't get too close to them,” Ben warns, and Tarran knows what that means. It's not truly a warning for Tarran himself, Ben has sworn to keep him alive, and it's a promise he'll keep. No it's a warning for the man Tarran drank with, a warning _to_ Tarran that he should not become too comfortable, forget that he is Ben's alone. 

And he'd spoken of his own work, of trying to restore order to the Outer Rim. Of how Rey was somewhere doing the same, and Luke as well. Of how the First Order might be gone, but the Outer Rim is still lawless, and Leia does not intend it to remain that way. 

And by the end of it, Ben feels loose, real, there, in a way that he hasn't felt since he left this house a week and a half ago. So when Tarran has washed the dishes, put them away, Ben crowds him up against the conservator door, grabs his wrists and pushes them hard against it. 

And Tarran turns his head away, glances sideways. But he looks back up at the disapproving noise deep in Ben's throat, looks up so that Ben can catch his mouth in a biting kiss. 

And Ben is certain that whatever Tarran Hux had in mind when he made that deal, this wasn't part of it. But it hardly matters now, because the deal was made, and Tarran isn't turning away. No, he's opening up to Ben, opening up as he always does now if Ben doesn't start things in a more... aggressive... way. 

So Ben slams his wrists harder against the metal of the conservator, bites at the split already there in Tarran's lip. And then he's tasting blood, metallic and familiar. 

He loves the taste of Tarran's blood. 

It's enough that he feels something fizzing through him, sparking and trembling. It's icy cold, and he knows what it is. The Dark. No matter how much he thinks that it should feel like the fire of arousal, like the burn of blood flowing over his fingertips, the overwhelming heat he feels every time he works thick fingers inside Tarran, it never does. 

No, the Dark side of the force is ice so cold it burns, freezes him to the bone at the same time rage and lust burn him from inside out. It's incredible, a war of color, temperature, sensation that accompanies every moment he snatches with Tarran.

And Ben never wants to leave.

He wants to be _this_ Ben forever. Wants to leave here with a mantle of ice across his shoulders, with Tarran at his side. Want to show the galaxy how stupid they all are, how much more powerful, better he could be. 

But he doesn't.

Instead he leads Tarren to the bedroom, drags the shorter man along with a hand clamped tight around his ass.

The bedroom is... different... from the the rest of the house. Outside it there are rough-spun rugs, old couches, heavy wooden furniture carve right here, on this planet. Inside, well inside is something far more to Ben's liking. The bed is metal, heavy. Difficult to move, to break. The rungs at the headboard are soldered very solidly in place. 

The floor is easily cleaned, a synthetic wood rather that the real stuff lining the rest of the house. The fresher is fully stocked with medical supplies. They've needed them in the past. 

Tonight, though, Ben doesn't think they will. No, tonight he wants to bite, to rip, to tear, but he wants Tarran to arch against him, wants to feel Tarran's come slick against his fingers. Sometimes it's different, sometimes he comes back from being Ben Solo the Jedi and has to force it out, has to burn his way back to the dark and to joy though Tarran's body. 

Not tonight. 

No, tonight he shoves Tarran down on the bed, uses the Force to hoist him up by the neck, throw him backward so that he bounces on the pillows. And Tarran's eyes are wide, bright in that pale face. 

Ben takes a moment to admire him, spread out there on the bed. No one would ever call the former general muscular, not even now. But his arms are more defined than they were when Ben found him, all those months ago, slumped in a cup of brandy in the middle of Hutt space. And his narrow hips rise from legs a little more corded with muscle than they were then. 

Chopping wood has done him well.

Yet there's still the same softness to him that he had as General, a kind of fragile curve to his waist that seemed so out of place on that powerful man. Now it simply looks part and parcel of him, of this kept man, this man who lives only for Ben's return every few weeks. And Ben strokes a hand over his belly, his waist, the plush curve of his chest, feels where there's a scar from Ben's knife, a healed mark of Ben's adoration. 

And Tarran looks at him, confused, waiting, poised. For a moment Ben wants to continue his slow caress, wants to continue stroking over Tarran's body, petting him like the pretty beast he is. But he needs more than that, wouldn't be here if he didn't. And so he snarls, replaces the tendrils of the Force that is holding Tarran with his own hands. 

He has one wrapped around Tarran's neck, pressing just tight enough that Tarran glances down at it, shifts a little in Ben's grasp. The other hand, though, the other hand is the one that Tarran should be worried about. Because Ben fumbles for a second, feels a knife drop out of his sleeve.

And sometimes he's gotten asked why he carries the knives. Why, as a Jedi, would he not just have his saber? And he always laughs at the question. There are many circumstances in which one cannot use a saber. Including this one.

Although, and he starts upward for a moment at the idea, although he may actually have a use for the saber at some near point in the future – Tarran's lips stretched wide about it, tears running down to pool on the hilt comes to mind – that's not for tonight. Instead, he replaces the hand at Tarran's throat with the hand holding the knife. 

And waits. 

And Tarran's breath speeds up, maybe from the new found ease of breathing, maybe from something else, from the knife at his throat. Maybe from the way that Ben is grinding down against him, hips rolling against Tarran's own. And the former General isn't hard yet, but Ben knows he will be, is sure of it. He traces a slow line down the edge of Tarran's throat, down to the notch of his collar bone, to where there's a single freckle, darker than the rest of him.

The first cut is so shallow that Tarran barely whimpers, must have been expecting more. And Ben folds forward, keeps up the dirty grind of his hips against Tarran's as he sucks the blood from the cut, pulls more of Tarran inside himself to coat his mouth with the copper taste of reality. 

And now Tarran is flexing his hips upward, is rutting slightly against Ben. It was only a matter of time, after all. 

Because Tarran always succumbs. 

It's one of the many reasons Ben knows they are meant to be here, that this is meant to have happened. Because the Force brought him Tarran, who is every dream he has ever had, who pulls the best part of him out, lets him paint his fury in blood and sweat and tears and come, and gives it back with interest.

And Ben stretches upward, licks a bloodstained tongue at Hux's ear, nuzzles into it as he sets the knife aside. It's enough for now, enough just to be back with Tarran, to know that he has this any time he wants, to bite hard at the other man's neck, leave a mark, and know that it doesn't matter. 

“Did you miss me?” He's whispering in Tarran's ear, can feel the thump-thump of Tarran's pulse so close. And it would be so easy to sink his teeth in, to feel pleasure rush through him with the spurt of Tarran's blood warm across his face. But he doesn't. Doesn't because Tarran is gasping out a response, harsh breaths as Ben's hips caress his hard cock. 

“No, you fucker. I did not miss you, Ben Solo. It's not as though you're not the only person I see, not the only person I fuck, the only person who would care if I died in the whole Force-damned galaxy. I did not fucking miss you. 

And from Tarran, those are words of love. 

So Ben sits back, strips off his clothes and waits till Tarran has done the same. Then he strokes a slow finger across Tarran's cheek. And Tarran has clearly figured out what kind of night this will be, that he doesn't have to wait, eyes shifting ever away from Ben, for the next slap or the next slice of a wild knife. 

No, he can see that Ben just wants a fuck, plain and simple. And so he's back to flexing his hips invitingly, biting that split lip as Ben looks at him.

“You're a pretty little slut when you're like this, you know that? You look so needy, like you were missing me.” And somehow, at the back of his mind, Ben knows that he has missed Tarran Hux as well, missed the man, not just the relief of the Dark, but that doesn't matter now. Because Tarran is fisting their cocks together, sitting up so that he and Ben are chest to chest. 

And there's a smear of blood against Tarran's soft pecs, bright across his pale skin. And a little gets on Ben as Tarran leans forward, whispers in his ear. 

“I did miss you, Ben fucking Solo. I missed your tantrums and your stupid saber, and your cock, and you. Now fuck me, fuck me so I have something to remember next time you leave me alone on this stupid planet with nothing but cuts and bruises to remember you by.”

It's too much. 

He throws Tarran back on the bed, watches that smirk as Ben flips him over as fast as possible. And he's feeling at Tarran's ass.

What he finds there makes him chuckle.

Tarran's wearing a plug. It's a thick black thing, something Ben picked up on one of his jaunts across the Outer Rim. And Tarran must just have wanted to wear it, had no idea Ben was coming to fuck him. But it will make things much easier. 

“I can really tell you missed me now,” he laughs, as he bend forward to mouth at Tarran's shoulder. And Tarran gasps as Ben flicks at the plug. “Missed me so much that you couldn't go without something stuffed up this ass.” But Ben understands, he really does. Because he can hardly go a week without Tarran, can hardly leave him here, when he knows what is waiting for him when he comes back. 

Because with Tarran, he is the person he should be. 

And it is hard, harder every time he leaves, harder to walk away from that. 

Ben pulls the plug free with a thin sucking sound, and Tarran yelps, whining at being empty. Ben smiles, grabs the bottle of slick next to the bed. Then he's coating himself, trusting that Tarran is open enough from the fat plug. And he must be, because he moans as Ben pushes inside, low, heated. And when Ben stops half way inside he looks over his shoulder, indignant. 

“Well don't stop, Ben.” Ben laughs, a wild sound that floods up from somewhere inside him he keeps locked away. Then he slams forward, and Tarran makes a little grunt of pain. And that makes him smile even more, even as he pulls out to push forward again. 

And Tarran feels just as good as he always does, better even. He's tight around Ben's cock, a slick heat that feels like it's wrapping around Ben's very soul. And the Dark still rages through him, and he's just a conduit, a channel for all the power in the universe as he slides forward, and Tarran Hux is just as much a release valve as a partner, and Ben can't think, can't control, can just feel, _be_. 

Dimly he hears Tarran moaning, hears a series of curses fall from his lips. And fainter still, Ben knows he has his hand wrapped around Tarran's cock, is jerking the other man off frantically. But it's all far away, far outside the roiling pleasure of the Dark that flickers through him lightning strikes, the friction that threatens to consume him with every snap of his hips.

And still distantly, he knows that Hux has tensed about him, has started to stiffen even further in his hand. And he can feel the heft of Tarran's dick, can feel how his balls are drawing up, how now he's not panting anything but a litany of Ben's name, over and over in a never ending cycle where it loses all meaning, where even the sounds twist and change, the “b” becoming an “r” becoming a “b” again. But it's still faint, still masked by the Darkness that pulses inside him. 

And then Tarran is coming, and Ben slams home into his own body with a thundering crash, can suddenly feel the way Tarran's ass tightens around his cock as he spills into Ben's waiting hand. And Ben knows he isn't going to last, knows he's about to lose himself inside Tarran. But he wants something before he comes. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. Then, louder, “Say it, Tarran Hux. Call me by my name.” 

“Fuck. Fuck, come for me, come in me, Kylo. Kylo. Kylo.” And he's coming, jackknifing around Tarran at the words, cock pulsing inside that perfect ass. And he slumps forward when he finishes, rolls slightly so he's curled around Tarran as they lie on the bed. He traces slow fingers across Tarran's chest, as he slips out. Then Tarran is rolling towards him, eyes bright. And Tarran's lips are soft as they whisper poison to him in the twilight of the bedroom. 

“Kylo. My Kylo.” And he wonders what it would be like to be Kylo forever. To walk out of this house, off this world with Tarran Hux at his side, and never, ever, ever be Ben again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you would also like to tempt me into more 5000 word fics that were supposed to be summaries, come play on tumblr [@saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


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